"Cast out the rascal who dares to speak against the master of the house," said Bertila with more than usual violence. No one moved. For the first time the peasant king saw his orders disobeyed.
"Dear master," began the oldest of the labourers, "we all think the same——"
A terrible blow from the master struck the speaker to the ground before he finished his remarks. In vain Larsson offered to go of his own accord; in vain Meri tried to mediate between the disputants. So strong were the principles of right in these people, that without consulting anything but their own convictions, they arrayed themselves as one man against the master's tyranny. Fourteen muscular men stood erect and resolute before the enraged Bertila, whose tall figure stood threateningly in the midst of the throng. One more blow, and they would all have left his service, and perhaps shut him up in his own little chamber until his anger had subsided; for the farther towards the north one goes, the more sensitive is the Finnish peasant to blows. Bertila, however, knew his people, and saw as a wise man that his anger had led him too far. He sought a means of getting out of the dilemma without too great a humiliation.
"What is it you want?" he asked with regained self-possession.
The workers looked at each other in silence for a moment.
"You are wrong, master," said one of the boldest at last. "You have insulted Meri for nothing. You wished to turn Larsson out of the house, and struck Simeon; you have done wrong."
"Meri, come here."
She did so.
"You are no longer a child, Meri. If you cannot endure to live with your aged father, then you are at liberty to stay on my farm at Ilmola. You are free—go, my child."
Bertila knew his daughter. These few words, "go, my child," pronounced in a milder tone than she was accustomed to hear, were sufficient to melt his daughter's heart.